First Impressions
by Losseniaiel
Summary: A first meeting to be remembered for all the Ages. Chapter 3 up. FINISHED.
1. Default Chapter

                                                                                                **First Impressions**

**Disclaimer:** Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate, not me.  I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money by this.

**Rating:** PG.

**Summary:** A first meeting to be remembered for all the Ages.  Fluffy Elrond/Celebrían ficlet.

**Feedback:** Yes, please.

**Happy Birthday** **ESCAPISTONE**!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Celebrían padded softly through the corridors of Imladris, luxuriating in the warmth of her soft woolen gown.  Soft drizzle had filled the air as they made their way through the foothills of the Misty Mountains and the dank chill of Khazad-dûm had never entirely left her bones.  The Dwarves had been welcoming enough, 'twas true, for although they still held sharply to their old quarrels, long too were their memories of the kindness of her uncle.  But for an Elf, a creature of the open skies, the echoing depths of the caverns had been strange indeed.

One corner of her mouth twitched upwards in amusement.  'Twas not as if she was accustomed to Imladris, either.  Something about its lines, the graceful carvings on the pillars, jolted her nerves, though whether 'twas for good or ill she could say.  'Twas all so … very _Noldorin_, and something else besides, some echo of a dim memory locked in stone, which she could not quite grasp.  

The elf-maiden shook her head.  It was really quite remarkably foolish to dwell on architecture, albeit architecture which sent a dull thrill through her nerves, on this day of all days.

_Adar._  He was here; he was safe, and they were together again.  There could have been no mistaking that silver mane, so alike her own in hue, as she peered through the drifting mists.  Of course, if she had been in any doubt, the quickening pace of her normally impassive mother's horse would have dispelled it.  Ai, but she had had not even the reassurance that her mother had, and long they had held each other, father and daughter, until they were soaked to the skin by both tears and rain.

Celeborn and Galadriel were together now, and Celebrían was free to wander the corridors of Imladris, although it was a queer sort of freedom, not to know anything or anyone, except the harassed-looking advisor who had shown them to their chambers, apologising profusely for the absence of his lord.  The Master of Rivendell had left early that morn to inspect the boundaries, he explained, and was not expected back for hours.  

Celebrían did not entirely believe him: her mother had been known to scare grown Elves half to death, and she would not be surprised if, apprised of their imminent arrival, he had fled from the house like g deer before the hunt.

Her lip curled slightly as she peered round the nearest door, but the scornful expression soon dissolved before her joy.  A whole room of books, shelf after shelf.  Quickly glancing around, she saw that the room was uninhabited and slipped through the door.

A large desk stood in one corner, strewn with a multitude of papers, two empty goblets holding everything in place.  A book lay open on a map of the Vale of Anduin.  Craning her neck, knowing that this was both unmaidenly and impolite, but too curious to stop herself, she saw that it was the Lay of Leithian, written out in a neat, angular script.  Feeling even more guilty, she curled her fingers round the thick tome and lifted it out of her resting-place, savouring the rich, butter-smooth texture of the leather beneath her touch.  'Twas all too irresistible: warmth from the low fire crackling in the grate, a comfortingly heavy book in her hand and an entire library to herself.  'Twould not be prudent to disturb her parents anytime soon, and, if she wandered any more, she was in dire danger of losing her way and finding herself in the wine cellars.

Celebrían nodded swiftly, content with her justification, and glanced around for a suitable nook.  Her father had always laughed affectionately at her predilection for reading in odd corners, but she found the snug places allowed her mind to ramble happily along the paths of imagination with no sense of the hurly-burly of everyday life.  Admittedly, the linen closet had not been her best choice, but how was she, then but twenty years of age, to know that the door only opened from the outside, or that her candle would burn down so swiftly?

Her eyes alighted upon the deep window shelf, padded with worn scarlet cushions, in which the indentations of another body were still visible.  Rain drummed on the thick glass, and it looked perfect for her purposes.  With a grin, she crossed the room and hopped up onto the broad ledge.  Immediately, something small and sharp-edged prodded her in the back.  With a grimace, the elf-maiden fumbled behind her.  It was an inkpot.  Placing it carefully on the floor, she hugged her knees to her chest, and immersed herself in the tale.

The sun was westering fast, its rays burnishing the ragged clouds, as she reached Finrod Felagund's contest of song with Sauron.  It was a bitter reminder of the ill afoot outside this tranquil valley, and she found her thoughts drifting to the lord who had disappeared so peremptorily.

Aye, one must think oneself either very grand or very lowly to take off into the hills.  She could not help but think it to be the former.  Gazing absent-mindedly into the distance, she toyed at a loose thread on her cuff.  Aye, he would be grand and stern, one with a face of granite and a heart of stone, if she guessed rightly.  Sallow features, pinched with self-importance and worn with an unnatural age, the way Galithlion, who courted her with such icy ardour, was.  She imagined him striding through the corridors, barking orders at all and sundry, too certain of his own worth to do aught else.  He was renowned as a counsellor of cool steel, and she could not see him in any other pose.

_How appalled he would be to find a mere maiden in his library, for such I judge it._

With a muffled sound of mirth, she returned to her reading, the image firmly implanted in her mind.

So engrossed was she in the bittersweet love of Lúthien for Beren, she did not hear the soft tap of feet on the tiled floor.  It was only as a shadow fell over the open book that she jumped, startled.

"Ai, Mandos, you scared me!" she exclaimed.

"I beg pardon, my lady."  Suddenly remembering his manners, he swept her a bow.  In truth, he had been equally unnerved by the silvered figure sitting at the window, gazing at the book as if there were naught else in Arda of interest.  He had half-imagined himself asleep, but it was all too real, too solid.  "I did not expect to find anyone here at this hour."

He took a step backwards, and Celebrían, twisting to appraise him, found her attention fixed.  Tall and slim, with broad shoulders, over which fell a torrent of black hair, and a noble face, showing much of both sorrow and joy.  But it was his eyes which caught her, made her lift one trembling hand to her throat.  The silver of the first stars of evening, bright and brilliant, with melancholy humour lurking in their shadowed depths.  He was attired for riding, in simple garb of muted colours, his black cloak cast carelessly back over one shoulder, his boots bespattered with mud.  A sword hung at his side, no courtier's blade this, but the weapon of a warrior, yet the fingers which rested so casually atop it were slender and graceful, more befitting of a scholar than a battle-hardened fighter.

"I…I…" she stammered, too disconcerted to introduce herself.  "I must apologise for my intrusion…"

"'Tis no intrusion."  He smiled.  "There should be books enough here for you to read throughout your stay, if you so wish."

"But will Lord Elrond mind terribly?" she inquired.  "I had thought that he would not much like to find his library thus invaded…"

She thought she saw amused shock light his eyes and course across his face, but the next moment it was as if it had never been, and she dismissed it as a flight of fancy.

"Nay.  I think that he would have no mind to set himself against your beauty."

"Gallant tease."  Much to her horror, she found herself so much at ease in the presence of this youth who surely could number few more years than herself.

"'Tis no tease to speak the truth.  However, it is nigh on time for the evening meal, and I should shock the House quite horrendously if I turned up looking little better than an orc.  May I accompany you to your chambers, hiril?"

"Oh!" She was abashed.  "I had not thought it was so late.  The book…"

"They are intriguing things, are they not?"

"Quite.  Such wonderful, terrible times they tell of…"

"More terrible than wonderful."  He stiffened slightly.

"I am terribly sorry, hir.  I did not mean to offend."

"No offence, merely old, old memories," he replied, deliberately relaxing.

"But I must certainly offend Lord Elrond if I do not make haste.  I should imagine that he stands on ceremony, and rates his position as the confidante of the High King very highly," she confided, rising and brushing at her skirts.

"Maybe."  Once again, that strange, enigmatic smile flitted across his kind face.  "We are all slaves to a fortune greater than ourselves, are we not?"

But Celebrían had no time to ponder his odd words, for as he uttered them, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.  She ducked her head to hide the blush raging in her cheeks under her silver tresses.

_Really, 'tis foolishness to respond thus to the courtesy of a stranger,_ she upbraided herself.

But as he made his way sure-footedly through the corridors, she could not entirely quell the pounding of her heart.

"Well, I must bid you farewell for the time being."  He paused on the lintel.  And, as if he had made up his mind about something, he lifted her hand in both his and brushed his lips against it – so burning hot.

"F…farewell."

~*~

"What dream you of?" Galadriel asked, deftly fastening her daughter's stays.

"Oh, nothing much, naneth, only a book," she lied.  Over the top of her bowed head, Celeborn raised his eyebrows at his wife.

"Lord Elrond has a great many books," he remarked innocently.

"Aye, but I do not think he would much appreciate my pawing over them," Celebrían muttered.

"We shall see, iell-nîn, we shall see."  
  


~*~

The Great Hall of Imladris was thronged with folk as they entered, the younger lady twitching nervously at the silk of her gown.  An imposing figure stood with his back to them, mantled in velvet of the deepest burgundy, a mithril circlet set atop his head.  Lord Celeborn scowled at the sight of the bevy of surrounding him, until Galadriel shot him her most determined glare.

"I think we should make ourselves known to our host, herven."

They wended their way across the room, weaving between the massed crowd of both Men and Elves, receiving many nods and bows.

"Lord Elrond, may we present ourselves to you?" the silver-haired lord called quietly.

And he turned.

Celebrían resisted her impulse to flee, preferably all the way back to Lórinand.

_How could I not have known?  How could I not have noticed his mastery of the place?_

It was the stranger from the library, yet there was a majesty and awe clinging about him now which there had not been – or rather, a radiance revealed.  

"Oh."

"Mae govannen, Lady Celebrían."  He was laughing at her, she was sure, his fingers lingering on her wrist as he took her hand.

"Mae govannen, Lord Elrond."  She snapped a curt bob of her head.

How infuriatingly embarrassing it was to be caught in churlishness before the very man she had been consigning to the ranks of those lacking in manners scarce hours before…

As they settled at the table, she tried to escape from him, but, by chance or machination, she found herself seated beside him, so close she could have reached out and smoothed the line of his arched brows.  She suspected that it was merely because her parents were, most unusually, paying little attention to those around them.

"May I be forgiven?" the Noldo murmured as he carefully speared a slice of venison.

"You shamed me with my ignorance, my lord," she said haughtily.  "I have not much liking for being made a fool of."

He ducked his head, his braids falling in his eyes.

"'Tis rather you who shame me, my lady."

Celebrían busied herself with her food, slicing the potatoes into ever-smaller fragments.

"Why were you absent? Was it pride?" she asked, and then flushed scarlet at her presumption.

When she looked up from her intent examination of the pattern on her plate, it was to find him almost as red as she was.

"Nay."  He stopped, fumbling for words.  "I see that my reputation has preceded me, and that it is a cruel one."

"Oh."  That seemed to be her response far too often around this Half-elf, as if his very presence left her a tongue-tied elfling.  'Twas certain he could be daunting when he wished to, but that was not what bothered her so… "Then why?"

"There were reports of orcs in the high passes.  'Tis my duty not to let any danger pass near to those who look to me for protection."

"So you went yourself?"

"Is it so strange?"

"I had thought it so; now I am not so certain."  A sudden frown creased her brow.

"What ails you, hiril-nîn?" He laid one hand over hers.  In truth, the usually reticent lord did not know what had possessed him to do such a thing, but there it was, and her skin was so silken beneath the calluses on his own from long hours of sword-practice...  "You look confused?"

"I was wondering what this is?"

"Well."  He leaned close and she could smell the pleasant musky scent rising from his newly washed hair.  "It appears to be chicken, but, if I am any judge of Lindir's cooking, I would guess that it is actually salt cod.  Although one can never be entirely sure…"

Such was the expression of honest perplexity in his stormy eyes when he glanced up at her through his thick lashes that she giggled.

"You are strange."

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly in commonplaces, Elrond pointing out the more interesting figures in the room.  All too soon, though, he had risen, his robes swirling around him, his bearing regal and charming.

The Hall of Fire was bustling, filled with soft melodies.  Deeply afraid of her inability to wrest her eyes from the tall Noldorin lord sitting before the blaze which cast strange shadows on the strong planes of his face, Celebrían made her excuses to her parents and stepped outside into the chill autumnal air.  She did not see the fleeting shadow of panic on the Master of Imladris' face, nor hear the footsteps which followed her.

"The stars are beautiful, are they not?"

She spun, catching herself on the balustrade.

"You have a habit of creeping up on me, my lord."

"Elrond."

"My lord."

"I wished to … I wanted to apologise for the offence I seem to have caused this afternoon."  His voice was pitched low, his eyes, fixed upon her face, sincere.

"I was not … well, I was a little shocked to find that the elf I had spoken too and the lord I had so casually impugned were one and the same," she said candidly.

"That was… Oh, Eru, why can this not be as easy as … as telling Gil-galad that it would not be wise to impale Annatar's head on the gates of Lindon?"

"Was that easy?" 

One eyebrow quirked skywards.

"No, especially as it was partly on my advice that that fell Maia was banned from the city.  Yet I find that I would rather speak those words again than try to explain my inexcusable behaviour."  
  
"If you speak, I swear I shall listen and make no demur."  She twisted the end of her sleeve between her fingers.

"I … I … I was intrigued, and I did not wish to earn your scorn by revealing myself as one whom you so evidently disliked."

"I … I … I presumed you were something you were not.  I could not imagine that the Lord of Imladris could be anything but a stern, hard creature, with no regard for others," she confessed.  "Your reputation as a master of lore … Well, you were not at all what I expected."

"And what was that?" His breath rose into the air in frosted clouds.

"You were young."

"Not so young, little one.  I have seen enough in these years, and there is no youth to me."

"Yet you seemed it," she reaffirmed.  "You came out looking for Gil-estel?"

"Nay, I came looking for you, although the Silmaril in the heavens calls me to look at it far more often than I deem sensible."

"He was your own father…"

He looked at her sharply.

"Do not pity me, my lady."

"'Twas not pity."  There was sorrow, yes, but how could she pity someone who looked upon his past with such stoic strength?  "And my name is Celebrían."

"And mine is Elrond," he replied, with a faint smile curving his lips.

"Well then, Elrond, shall we not forget all imagined slights?" 

"Aye, my la … Celebrían."

"'Tis strange…" She returned to her perusal of the sky.  "…That the stars should be so bright after this day."

"Maybe."  There was still a deep reserve to him, and he would not easily speak his thoughts.

"And which one is that one?" She pointed.

"Which?" 

"That one there…"

"That one there?" He had moved to stand behind her, his chin just shy of her head.  "'Tis the Eye."

Oh Eru… 

"Yes."  She prayed that he could not hear the tremor in her voice.  "And that one?"

Elrond could barely stand from her proximity.

He rested one arm on her shoulder, the soft fabric ticking her cheek.  Celebrían could almost pick out the lines on his palm in the starlight.

"That one?"

"No, the one to the left … a little more left … that is the one…"

Keeping a tight hold on his control, Elrond gently touched one hand to her midriff, pulling her closer, so he could see what she saw.

"May I…?" 

Heady with the sensation of his lean body against her own, she nodded shakily.

"Ah … I see … why 'tis the Maegloth …"

"Oh … yes.  I was looking at it wrong.  And this one is…"

Afterwards, neither could say how long they had stood there, secure in the night and the natural melding of shallow breaths.  But Celebrían could still feel his arms around her as she slipped away.

_Not yet._ Elrond watched her fade into the shadows.  _For all the joy of this night, I cannot say anything yet.  But one day…_

TBC

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**A/N:** The star names are my own.  I'm not good enough at astronomy to work out constellations, either with Tolkien's names, or with modern names.

**Translations**

Hir – lord.

Hiril – lady

Iell-nîn – my daughter.

Maegloth – sharp-flower.

Adar – father.

Mae govannen – well met.

Hiril-nîn – my lady.


	2. Mortality Revealed

****

First Impressions

****

Chapter Two

Thanks to **Nemis** for betaing this.

Thanks to everyone for putting up with the long interval between updates.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The wind howled with gusto as a winter storm hurled itself at the fortress half-hidden in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. The trees boomed and swayed, their branches whipping about, now at the drenched paths, now at the shuttered windows of the Last Homely House. While fires crackled in the grates within, outside, rain poured down in torrents, sweeping through the valley in burgeoning streams where there was usually dry land and emptying into the swollen Bruinen. Occasionally, there was a rattle like falling tiles, and a bushel of hailstones plunged downwards from the brooding thunderheads piled one upon another miles above, mercilessly pounding any creature unlucky enough to have failed to reach shelter.

Celebrían paced restlessly about the warmly lit apartments that she shared with her parents, wringing her hands. Her book lay forgotten on the table, open next to a cup of tea that had once been hot, but was now gradually coating the china with a thin grey-brown glaze. A narrow furrow ran between her eyebrows, and her lips were pressed into a tight line. Her gaze returned constantly to the window, through which she could catch a glimpse of the path leading up to the House, now more of a river than a roadway. The grey half-light showed very little, but she scarce needed any light at all to know that the one she sought had not returned. She could feel it, in every stone, every inch of tapestry, every breath of warm, scented air.

In marked contrast to her obvious unease, Galadriel and Celeborn were at peace. The elf-lord's voice was raised in gentle song, something about starlight on oak leaves that Celebrían decided she did not much care for. Galadriel, however, was smiling, one hand hooked into the crook of her husband's arm, her head resting on his shoulder. The elf-maiden scowled at them, feeling uncharacteristically irritable. 'Twas not right that they lounge around thus, blithely ignoring the great danger… Could they not see; could they not understand that _he _was in grave … nay, mortal, danger? The Lord of Imladris was two hours late in his return from patrolling the borders, and still there was no slosh and thud of hooves on the path, no dark-hooded figures carefully picking their way up the valley. Mayhap a rotten tree, felled by the high wind, cracking back and skull, mindlessly extinguishing that light … a muddy path too slick with mouldering leaves for even the most sturdy mount to steady itself, and a precipice, a long drop to nothing … or a stray bolt of lightning, thrown by some malign whim of fate, searing earthwards on a high and desolate moor…

As if to lend emphasis and immediacy to her thoughts, thunder crackled and hollered outside and a fresh gust of wind lashed heavy raindrops against the windowpane. The sky had progressed from a sullen grey to near darkness, the clouds seemingly lower and lower by the minute. Celebrían pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and shivered slightly despite the warmth of the room.

"Sit, iell-nín."

"I … I should not… Someone must watch…"

"There are guards on the gates, and he will come soon enough, whether you watch for him or no." Celeborn held out one arm to her.

"I know not whom you speak of," she said flatly.

Her father raised one eyebrow, but made no remark. With a sigh, she sat down next to him and slipped into the shelter of his embrace. Across him, Galadriel caught her eye and smiled enigmatically. Celebrían ducked her head and blushed scarlet, knowing full well that she was incapable of hiding her feelings from her mother. It seemed an age to her that they sat there, enveloped in a patient silence, and she strained her ears for any sound. 

At last it came: the distant squelching of hooves through the clogging mud, the halting jangle of muffled harnesses and a voice cursing the weather in fluent terms. No thought, no consideration of decorum halted her, and she had fled the room before she knew it, her feet soundless on the stairs, clutching the handrail as she jumped downwards. She held her skirts clutched in one hand, and flew from one corridor to the next. It was only when she could see the torches burning brightly in the courtyard before her that she finally slowed, smoothing the creases from her skirts. Walking forward at a stately pace, she could scarce breathe for the panicked tremor of her heart in her throat.

The riders were deeply shadowed as they slid from their saddles, boneless with exhaustion. Trying to appear calm and collected, she nevertheless sought some sign to distinguish him, half-imagining that when she saw him he would be but a limp body supported between two comrades.

But, at last, there he was, a tall figure, his broad shoulders angular under his sodden wool cloak. He rode into the courtyard, one hand resting lightly on his horse's neck, his hood thrown back and his eyes keen, the last to arrive.

"They are gone." He dismounted lightly, and wiped his sword on a patch of grass before sheathing it.

It was nigh on evening now, the invisible sun had already sunk beneath the western horizon, too weak even to gild the massing clouds. The courtyard was a-swarm with shadows, thick and dark, and his eyes were tired, his mind preoccupied with the orcs they had found in the pass. And yet, as he checked the company, his gaze skimming briskly from one to another, his attention was caught by a flickering light, just on the edge of his vision. He raised his eyes from the inspection of a superficial wound to a young soldier's shoulder, seeking the disturbance, and his breath snared in his throat. With a final nod to the Elf, assuring him that all would be well, he moved away, suddenly acutely aware of the filth clinging to the hem of his cape, of the strands of rain-soaked hair curling around his face likening it to that of a half-drowned elfling.

Celebrían had intended to be serenely elegant, the very epitome of perfection, but there he was before her, his face uncertain, questioning. She hurried forward, all maidenly reserve forgotten. "Ai, Elrond- hîr, such worries I had for you in this storm…" And afterwards, she would never understand what impulse of unmaidenly forwardness prompted her. All she would know would be that she had grasped his hand, so very cold from the storm, between both her own, and pressed it to her cheek. For a moment, she thought that she had made some dreadful mistake: his face froze, and she went to pull away. But as she did so, he recovered a little of his famed composure. Slowly, tentatively, he caressed her jaw line with his thumb, barely touching. His other hand found her shoulder, tugging her a little closer, and she smiled at him, safe once more from her overactive imagination. "Such fears…"

"I thank you for your fears," he murmured, "although they were unnecessary. The only serious danger we faced was that of being drowned by an overflowing stream."

"I seriously considered that possibility," she confessed a touch ruefully. 

He laughed, still very close to her. "Again I thank you. Would you accompany me to dinner? You would have to wait, and of course I would understand if you did not wish to do so…"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I would be delighted to accompany you, and I will wait." She grinned up at him. A joyous smile touched the corners of his mouth. With a low bow, he strode away into the House.

~*~

The next morning, Celebrían awoke early, roused by uneasy dreams of she knew not what. At breakfast there was no sign of her host, but that was not unusual. Oftentimes he took coffee and bread in his study, already engrossed in maps and books and plans and she would see neither hide nor hair of him until noontide. So it was that a small smile lingered in her eyes. The previous evening she had had the opportunity to monopolise the elf-lord, the hours seeming as minutes as they talked long into the night. Parting at last, he had extracted a promise from her, or she from him, she was not entirely sure which, that they would set aside half an hour after the noonday meal to further their discussion of the Elder Days.

However, when they sat at table, he barely spared her a glance, instead intently studying a vast tome bound in peeling maroon leather, his hands buried deep in his sleeves. He sat far from her and answered all inquiries in a clipped whisper, returning at once to his reading. Never had he seemed so remote from her, so distanced. His brow was permanently creased as if with worry.

Nevertheless, when his eyes rested on her, they seemed to soften a fraction, and thus she was only a little deterred. When the meal ended she attempted to balm her unease with a book. So successful was she that she lost track of time, and it was nigh on evening when she went to find the elf-lord.

As she trod the corridor towards his rooms, her silken slippers whispering softly against the wooden floors, an explosive noise almost deafened her, echoing off the walls. It was followed by a series of grumbled imprecations in a voice that she knew almost as her own. She knocked on the door to Elrond's study and entered without waiting for a response. The sight that met her eyes almost stopped her heart. The elf-lord was bowed over his desk, clutching his midriff, wracked by some dreadful paroxysm. His dishevelled hair could not obscure his reddened eyes, nor the expression of miserable pain which contorted his face. Finally controlling the spasm, although only with difficulty, he raised one hand in a weak welcome. His face, she noted, was very pale, the shadows beneath his eyes almost black, and yet the tip of his nose was scarlet.

"Come in," he croaked. "I had not expected you yet."

"I had thought that you would refuse me because I am so late."

"Late? What is the time?"

"Late afternoon." She gestured towards the grim skies beyond the window.

"Oh yes."

"I thought that we might…" Celebrían broke off and stared aghast. "Your nose is … it is … it is _dripping_."

He dabbed at it with a scrap of parchment and then sneezed abruptly. She had heard the sound before, from some of the Dwarves in Eregion, but it seemed incongruous coming from this tall and lordly Elf. When he did not stop but instead continued, the volume gradually increasing, wincing with every jolt to the aching muscles of his back, she rose and closed the distance between them, supporting him though every paroxysm, rubbing his back in gentle circles. But his skin was terribly cold against hers and his misery was palpable, radiating off him in waves.

"Do you know what ails you?" She settled him into his chair, bending over him solicitously.

"No." He sneezed unhappily. 

"Might it be some poison?"

"I...I am sure that 'tis not so." But as his head ached and his chest ached and even his knees had begun to exhibit the distressing tendency to ache as well, his demeanour was not such as to engender much confidence in his words.

"My lord..." She placed her hands on her hips and regarded him severely.

"Elrond. My name is Elrond, Celebrían."

"I shall neither give you your rightful name nor permit you to use mine if you do not attend to my words."

He began to nod but then thought better of it as the movement only served to increase his conviction that his skull had been filled with molten solder. "Very well."

Celebrían drew a deep breath and smiled at him a little tremulously. "Were you wounded at all?"

Mutely, he extended his left arm. The sleeve, rolled up to the elbow, revealed a long shallow wound touched with scarlet fire. Celebrían winced and took his arm tenderly between both her hands, turning it this way and that. Startled even in the depths of his queasy delirium, Elrond met her appraising gaze with wide eyes. She blushed, cursing herself even as she did so, but her hands did not cease their gentle exploration.

"'Tis the merest nick. I had not thought it important." He found himself contemplating the dexterity of her slender hands, the texture of her skin against his, and it was his turn to blush.

"I know not." She bit her lip. "I am no healer although I know a little of the art."

It was half in his mind to ask if she wished to learn more, inappropriate and patently absurd though such a suggestion might be at this time, but a cataclysmic sneeze interposed itself and robbed him of all conscious thought. Once he had recovered it, now steadfast in his belief that imminent death awaited him, he found that Celebrían had placed one hand on his back and was guiding him towards the door. He straightened a little but did not resist.

Celebrían tried to chivvy her mind into calmer paths. Only too aware that she was achieving remarkably little success in this task, she attempted to remind herself that he was not hers to care for, and besides, she scarce knew him and so what she felt could be no more than mild concern. But no matter how many times she repeated this to herself, it did not ring true; the pulse threading in her throat in response to his very real presence beside her would not allow her to forget that.

Slowly, step by step, punctuated by ever more hacking coughs, they made their way through the corridors. The infirmary was in sight, the heavy doors standing open as usual. Elrond strode ahead, keen to reach its sanctuary, but then a roiling wave of dizziness overcame him, boiling up from within. Queasy, he leaned against the wall for support. Celebrían, coming up behind him, saw the heightened pallor of his features, the tense lines. She placed one hand on his elbow and he wavered on his feet, his customary grace and poise all but forgotten.

"Please…" she called, raising her voice to echo through the corridors. "Someone…"

Master Erestor peered around the lintel of a storeroom he had been inventorying. Alarm clouded his sombre face and he hurried to his friend's side. Together, he and the elf-maiden steered the Lord of Imladris into the infirmary, wreathed in the scents of camphor and medicinal herbs, all sound deadened by the heavy white drapes.

The young healer, little more than a lad, looked up from the tome he was studying with something akin to fear in his eyes. "Oh! 'Tis you, Master Erestor. And you, Lady Celebrían, I bid you good afternoon." His darting gaze finally fell on that which it had been trying to avoid: the reeling peredhel lord standing between them, muffling his coughs with the back of his hand. The pale, nervous youth looked as if he was about to faint. He stumbled upright, fluttering papers everywhere and upsetting the inkwell. Elrond discovered that he was not so ill as to preclude a despairing groan over the ruination of the priceless volume on herb-lore.

"Ai... My liege..." Falin took the muttered oath as a sign of even greater pain. His hands twitching uncontrollably with fear, he half-led, half-shoved Elrond towards the low bed. When he began to divest him of his outer garments, the elf-lord opened his mouth to frame a blistering retort, but found his way blocked by a mug of noxious steaming liquid that burnt and stung as he was forced to swallow it, clogging his head with sulphurous fumes. Thus it was that he was compelled to endure the humiliation of being reduced to his undertunic and breeches while the maiden towards whom he harboured certain intentions looked on, apparently unfazed. Celebrían, of course, felt sure that her embarrassment and, even worse, the entirely inappropriate heat gathering within her, would surely manifest itself in burning cheeks any moment. When it obliged her by not doing so, she busied herself with retrieving Falin's dropped papers from the floor and dabbing at the flood of ink which was gradually dripping from the edge of the writing desk. Anything, she decided, would be better than waiting like a lump of wood. And surely if she was occupied, then all would be well and her rampaging fears proved in vain.

The next moment, her fist clenched so hard around the quill she had retrieved from a far corner that the nib cut painfully into the flesh of her palm. Falin had completed his futile examination and was now pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back in unconscious imitation of his mentor. "Wisdom eludes me in this matter. All I can say is that there is some poison in his system. We must wait for it to run its course."

"And what if...?" She did not finish; she could not.

The healer shrugged helplessly. He had not noticed that she had remained in the room and he had no idea how to deal with this furious maiden who in her outrage appeared strikingly like her mother. Elrond, his face devoid of all expression, laid one hand on her arm to stay her. "Your concern is most kind, hiril-nín, but I would rather that you did not deprive Falin of his head."

Her grim expression softened and an appreciative smile touched the corners of her mouth. "As you wish, my lord."

For a long moment they held their locked gaze, and then his hand fell away.

Erestor had questioned the healer in a hurried undertone and his face was bleak. Falin's shoulders slumped.

"My lord..."

"Here I shall stay, until what shall be has been." Elrond's smile did not reach his eyes, much though he desired to hide his own fear from those around him.

Celebrían tactfully left the room while the petrified healer helped his lord into the sickbed. As Erestor strode off to attend to the affairs of the House, she conducted a silent symposium with herself on the role of propriety in this situation. The outcome was inevitable: she would stay unless bodily removed.

She entered the room cautiously and nearly choked on the bubble of laughter that rose up unbidden within her. Wise Master Elrond, the sickly colour of new parchment, was clad in white pyjamas better suited for someone half his height; his hands rested atop the coverlet and his wrists protruded from the cotton cuffs by several inches. The coverlet itself had been pulled up to his nose by his overzealous assistant.

As Erestor entered bearing a large pile of documents, Falin withdrew into an antechamber, the expression in his frightened eyes making it abundantly clear that he had abandoned all hope that his lord would recover. 

"I am glad to see that my indisposition provides you with amusement," Elrond croaked, blowing his nose miserably. 

Getting a grip on her hysterical laughter, Celebrían settled herself down in the chair beside him. 

"Judge not Falin so harshly." His voice was little more than a whisper. "He will have great skill when he has mastered his fear."

"I know. 'Tis just that…" She trailed off, and they sat in a silence that should have been awkward, but somehow was not. Elrond bent his attention to the papers with which his advisor had provided him, but the dull pain thrumming through his head distracted him, and soon, his head nodding, he fell into a snuffling doze.

~*~

Celebrían was startled into consciousness by the distant sound of rushing feet on the cobblestones. She remained where she was, her head cradled in her hand, her feet tucked up underneath herself. Some time during the long night, when Elrond had cried out in his sleep and she had hovered over him with her concern writ plain in her face, not caring that any could see it, her parents had slipped into the room. Although she had taken the shawl they had brought, she had resolutely ignored their suggestions that she might like to take some time away from the elf-lord's bedside. In the end, they had given in, and so she had remained here, in the middle of the next morning, exhausted and afraid.

The noise came again, and then a voice loud with frustration and fear that almost matched her own.

"_What_?"

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, the tip of a sword clinking and jangling against the risers. The hem of a heavy cloak snarled on the banister with the sound of tearing cloth. A fine baritone scandalised the air with a series of vicious Quenya curses. Elrond stirred uneasily in his sleep. The footsteps continued, and the door was flung open nosily, rebounding off the wall.

Ereinion Gil-galad, attired for riding, mud still clinging to his boots, stood in the doorway, his fair face drawn into tight lines of worry. "Ion-nín? They said… I … I am here…"

Elrond roused himself languidly, peering at the figure with rheumy eyes. His face was deathly pale and the tip of his nose was tinged a livid red. His fitful breathing rasped unevenly. "My liege? Adar Ereinion?" He propped himself up on his elbows, woozy and uncertain as to whether he wished just to close his eyes and forget or not. "I … I am glad that you are here…"

He was rather taken aback when the High King suddenly threw back his head and laughed until his eyes were streaming with tears. Celebrían, having scrambled to her feet, looked from one to the other with utmost bafflement. Gil-galad clutched at the lintel to keep himself upright, already half-doubled over with almost painful mirth.

"My king…" She advanced on the wailing monarch with danger in her eyes. Her confusion only increased when he gripped her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks.

"My cousin. I see that you have met Lord Elrond."

"Aye, but…"

Still chuckling between gasps of breath, Gil-galad turned back to the languishing peredhel. "And you call yourself a healer, tithen-pen?"

Elrond summoned the strength to cock one eyebrow skywards.

"Or perhaps 'tis your memory that is lacking." He shed his cloak and shrugged his shoulders to work out the knots from hours of riding. "Do you not remember when we found you, Círdan and I?"

"Aye?"

"Your brother was thus unwell. No matter how many healers we consulted, none knew the answer. But then, when we were resigned to the worst, a healer of the race of Men happened to overhear our gloomy conversation…"

"Aye?"

"You and the Lady Celebrían and I, not to mention your entire household, have been unduly worried. The malady with which you are afflicted, while unpleasant, is certainly not fatal, and is no result of orcish poison. You have contracted what I believe is known as a cold."

Elrond sank back into the pillows, shading his eyes in embarrassment. "I should have known … I should have seen…"

"I expect that your attention was otherwise engaged." The king glanced slyly at Celebrían. 

"My wits must have been befuddled by the disease." He tried to gesticulate emphatically, but was rather curtailed by a sudden cough which set his head pounding with a sudden pain.

"You have wits?" Gil-galad teased.

Elrond waved one hand to signal that he was presently unable to speak. After an interval of several gasping, wheezing minutes, he was able to respond. "Only a few, although I do try to make the best of them." He raised one hand to grasp that of his king, but he was shaking with fatigue, shivering with cold sweat. Gil-galad returned the proffered hand to the coverlet and placed his own on the elf-lord's forehead, gauging the temperature and soothing at the same time. "Sleep, ion-nín. Sleep and be well."

Gratefully, Elrond let himself subside back into oblivion.

Gil-galad pressed a kiss to Celebrían's forehead. "I believe that I should present myself to your lady mother."

He paused in the doorway and turned back towards her. His face was very grave. "Treat him gently. The wrath of a father is a dreadful thing."

She nodded, and smiled a little shakily.

~*~

The look on Elrond's face was filled with some trepidation as he regarded the elf-maiden standing before him. Celebrían grinned briskly and deposited the armful of books on the low table.

"And?"

"And I thought that you might wish to read.."

"No matter that I am still unwell?"

"Is it possible to be so unwell that one does not wish to read?" The expression in her frank blue eyes challenged him as she chose a volume from the top of the heap and, opening it at the beginning, buried her nose in it with a contented sigh.

Elrond plucked up all the not inconsiderable courage he possessed. "Never with you here." He brought her free hand to his lips and kissed it softly. Celebrían shivered happily and touched the tips of her fingers to his lips.

"Now. Do you wish to read a work on surgical theory, or a poem from…" She squinted at the worn lettering. "…Apparently from my grandfather Finarfin to my grandmother…?"

TBC

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Reviews, as always, are much appreciated.


	3. Confusion

**First Impressions**

Chapter Three.

The final installment. Yes, I've actually finished something ;)

Thanks for waiting.

And massive thanks to **Nemis** for betaing this.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Celebrían sighed quietly and repressed the urge to throttle her ardent admirer. He sat beside her now, his dark hair falling in his face, expounding on some esoteric subject. She cast a longing glance at the book she had been forced to abandon when he had made his presence known. Her afternoon was not unfolding in the way that she had planned. The rose that lay forlornly in her lap like a limp cadaver did not much improve matters, looking as it did as if it had been torn from the bush by a hurried hand.

A dull silence, empty and hollow, fell. He gazed at her with expectant eyes, his face devoid of any other expression. She floundered, searching for some clue but finding none.

"How interesting you are, Master Falin."

"'Tis nice of you to say so." He blushed and looked away while Celebrían cursed the malapropos slip of her tongue. The next moment, her silent lament for her feigned interest grew immensely as the Elf launched into a long-winded and highly esoteric discourse. 

Her mind drifted away, or so it seemed, to another face, fairer by far to her, solemnly elegant, graven with lines of wisdom and humour alike. To grey eyes that seemed to speak of the starlight in the beginning of days ere there was Sun or Moon to cloud their splendour...

Her attention was rudely recalled to the present by a hand creeping propretorially closer to her shoulder. She regarded it with abject horror for a fleeting heartbeat, imaging it as some huge, clammily pale insect.

Surely he could not... Surely he would not...

She squirmed away from him, inch by inch, although any attempt at subtlety was rather hampered by her skirts which fluttered and rustled as she moved.

"...And of course if one applies it directly to the throat of a patient..." 

She realised she was being treated to a convoluted description of the healing properties of rosemary when combined with an infusion of springtime heather and that the errant hand was once more travelling in her direction. Firmly concentrating on the remembered face, she stared fixedly at the chill sky of the young year above her, and searched for some suggestion as to what to do next.

Just when she had resigned herself to the course of brutal frankness, she was saved. Erestor, a bundle of maps tucked under one arm, his face contemplative, chanced across the unhappy pair.

Celebrían's own face cleared miraculously. "Master Erestor." She held out one hand to waylay him.

"Lady Celebrían." He bowed deeply, but his eyes were brimful of amusement as he glanced from her to her wide-eyed suitor. "And a good day to you too, Falin." He paused a little and the mirth in his eyes only seemed to increase. "My lady, I believe that Lord Elrond is looking for you. He said something about a book..."

Celebrían jumped hastily to her feet, trying not to show unseemly haste and failing miserable. 'Twas as if one were to go from the bitter cold of the high mountains to a blazing fire in a welcoming hearth in an instant. Steadying the erratic beat of her heart, she curtsied prettily to the Elf who had borne her company - however unwelcome - for the last hour. "I must bid you farewell for now, Master Falin. I believe that my presence is requested elsewhere." Her mouth twitched with the effort to control her almost uncontrollable smile.

"My lady." Falin took her hand in both of his and squeezed it tightly. He leaned closer to whisper in her ear and his breath lifted her hair in little puffs. "Take heart. I am sure that you will show sweet forbearance and emerge with your spirit uncrushed from whatever daunting encounter Lord Elrond has prepared for you."

She was hard pressed to bite back the swift retort that sprang to her lips, and only the dizzy black spots dancing before her eyes reminded her that it was possible to breathe without speaking one's mind. "I am sure that I shall be quite undaunted." She smiled, just showing the tips of her teeth, and laid her hand upon Erestor's arm. "Lead on, my lord."

The paths leading back to the house seemed to stretch themselves out to infinity, although in reality it could not have taken more than a minute to transverse them. Erestor smiled down at the elf-maiden with the avuncular affection of one who had seen more generations than this tie themselves into knots over matters of the heart. Finally, she giggled, overcome with relief. "Thank you."

"He is a good lad."

"Well intentioned."

"Quite so."

At the library they parted. The door stood open and she slipped through, her silken slippers noiseless on the polished floor. The room was as yet empty, and she breathed deeply of its inimitable scent; well-cured leather, warm paper and ancient dust, and beneath it all that lingering spiciness that only at great length had she identified as Elrond's. As she had before, on that first dreadful, wonderful day, she went to the massive oak desk that stood in one corner, laden, it seemed, almost to breaking point with books and papers, fragile pens scattered across all like felled trees. One in particular caught her eye, older than the rest, worn into smooth grooves by the passage of the centuries, the glass a little dulled but the colour as vivid as ever. It lay heavy in the palm of her hand, somehow reassuring in its solidity.

"Mae govannen, Celebrían."

She jumped, yelped, and lost her grip on the pen. She fumbled for it, trying to stay its disastrous flight. Her flailing fingers caught the nib, flipping it over in midair, and it sailed across the room with the deadly purpose of an arrow shot in the thick of battle. She closed her eyes , expecting the worst. When there was no jewel-bright sound of breaking glass, she opened them slowly.

Elrond had raised one hand and caught it in mid-flight. He was holding it out to her, his eyes warm. "I hope that you will believe me when I tell you that I have never meant to creep up on you, although I do seem to be making a habit of it."

"I...I..." She winced inwardly at her nervous stutter. "I am sorry. I did not mean to..."

He grinned unabashedly now. "'Twas good of you not to neglect my practice at dodging flying objects."

"I would not wish you to become lax in combat, my lord." She straightened from the half-crouch she had adopted.

"Here." He held out the pen. "If you like it so, I beg you to take it."

"I could not. 'Tis obviously something of great value to you. I could not take such a thing from you."

He smiled, firmly quashing the impulse to bolt. "'Twould mean more to me if you would take it." He placed it in the palm of her hand, and tenderly curled her fingers around it.

Celebrían wished she had the courage to do as her wilful heart suggested and throw her arms around him there and then. Finding that she did not, she took his hand in her free one for a brief moment. "Thank you. Thank you more than I ever can say."

Bewildered and more than a little unnerved by the unplumbed depths of emotion that lurked beneath the fragile ice of the conversation, she released his hand and moved away.

"So." He shook his head as if to dispel some dizzying cloud. "So. The books."

"Yes, the books."

~*~

Breakfast the following morning was an exceedingly pleasant affair, seated as she was between the High King and his Herald, both in exceptionally high spirits. Celebrían's parents, however, were conspicuously absent, having failed to emerge from their chambers for the morning meal. The elf-maiden had smiled at their firmly closed door and decided that it would be wisest not to think further on this matter.

But once the three Elves had lingered over the crumb-speckled remains of their meal until the tea had cooled into unpleasantness, and once the elder Elves had adjourned to pore over maps and plans in the council chamber, there was no protectively looming elf-lord to guide her safely to her chambers. Before she knew what was happening, Falin was by her side, pressing a narrow slip of parchment into her hand, his fingers cold and decidedly sticky against her own. Before she could conclude whether or not 'twould breach all notions of propriety to return the letter unread in that instant, he was gone, scuttling away across the fast emptying great hall. 

Celebrían sighed and turned the unwanted object over in her hands. There could be no arguing that 'twas not meant for her; her name was writ across it in large, slightly blocky script, and then underlined three times in scarlet ink for good measure.

She turned on her heel and strode off at a decisive pace towards the library, her sanctuary.

It was a long time before she emerged, fuming audibly and stalking through the corridors of Imladris accompanied by the shrilly peremptory click of her shoes on the floor. Her eyes were very bright as she bent all her considerable concentration to the task of concocting various ways to inflict suffering upon her would-be suitor. So great was her fury that it was some time before she noticed that she no longer carried the unfortunate letter with her.

~*~

The evening was drawing in, black and grey and amber. Anar was dim in the West, half-hidden in the furled clouds piled high above the ridges and dells of the foothills. In the Last Homely House, lamps had been lit, spilling warm buttery light through the corridors and into deeply shadowed corners. Drapes fluttered slightly in the warm drafts from the fires and then settled softly back into place. Deft Elven hands lifted trays of steaming bread from the ovens and melodious Elven voices were raised in less than melodious hollers as vast pots of fragrant stew bubbled and simmered.

Elrond Peredhil's face was pensive as he meandered his way through the corridors, but his eyes were not unhappy. All told, it had been a productive day and the evening promised to be pleasant, but first he had an argument to solve. 'Twas a question of age versus wisdom as he had put it, laughing at scowl that had graced his foster-father's face. He sought a book that he believed contained the passage that would conclusively prove him right. Admittedly, 'twas but a small skirmish in the War of Wrath of which they spoke, but 'twould be nice all the same.

The book was not where he expected to find it amid the row upon row of similar volumes that lined the walls of his library, but it was the work of a heartbeat to spot it, nestled among the cushions on the window seat. The shadows were chased from his eyes: she had been here, and soon he would see her, sit beside her...

Elrond bent and hefted the thick volume into his arms. As he did so, a sheet of parchment fluttered from its pages. He never meant to read it, never meant to pry, but the first line caught his eye and he could not look away, could scarcely breathe. His liver turned over and he could feel the blood drain from his face, leaching his smile away with it.

__

"My dearest Celebrían..."

He noticed almost absently that the parchment had clearly been read often, the edges a little crumpled, the ink slightly smudged as if from a fingertip lovingly tracing each line. Some words seemed to be pooled and obscured by tear-marks. 

A thundering pain was gathering in the back of his head, building and swelling.

__

"...My darling love, I awake each morning from dreams of you, and yet the day brings brighter joys for only under Anar's lantern light, so much less fair than your hair, does my skin touch yours, much though I hope that one day soon it shall be not so..."

The pain had reached his eyes now, burning his sight, searing the hateful lines into his unwilling brain. He wished he could not see; he wished he could not think, but he remained as always.

__

"Do not be disheartened, melethril, by the advances of my liege-lord, for he means well, yet of the matters of men and maidens he knows not, and he cannot see that we are heart-bound, you and I..."

His throat was clogged with impenetrable clay, but he knew not how it came to be there, only that each breath was an agony, each thought an indecision.

__

"...It is told in the song and legend of our people how your mother, the fabled Lady Galadriel, refused even one hair of her head to the Lord Fëanor. Such tokens have you given me of your esteem and affection, by your sweet touch and, sweeter yet, your words of kindness, that I dare to hope that you will not thus refuse me.

I await you in love, and yearn for the day when we may be husband and wife.

Your adoring Falin."

Elrond leant his head against the cool stonework, sucking in great gulps of bitter air through the sudden obstruction. His mind was as the sea before the breaking of the storm, his eyes almost black with the tempest. How could he have been such a fool? How could he not have seen? 'Twas so obvious in Falin's face, and mayhap that was why Celebrían ... no, the Lady Celebrían, had been so eager to tend his cold all those days in the infirmary. Mayhap it had been there before even that and he had not seen it. And yet, surely he who had looked so long at her fair face would have seen it writ there in letters bold to see...

But another quick glance at those other, starker letters here before him convinced him that he had to have missed it, snow-blinded by love.

__

"My dearest Celebrían..."

Nay, he could not be angry with her, although he was. 'Twas unseemly and unjust. 'Twas not as if she could choose the disposition of her heart, any more than he could choose the disposition of his.

In the reckoning of the Eldar, the passing of the years was held of little import. And yet, he conceded privately, the yéni stretched long and arduous between his birth in drowned Sirion and that of the Lady Celebrían. Mayhap Falin, who could scarce count two score years ere her birth, would make her a more apt husband, less in thrall to sorrow and old care. It was not, all told, a very comforting thought.

While his thoughts ran thus in melancholy, his feet, all unbidden, had brought him back to the council chamber. 

"And? What does this esteemed work say of the matter?" Gil-galad lifted his head and grinned. His dark hair was unbound, his linen shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up. In one hand he held a full goblet of wine; he gestured for his vice-regent to take the other. 

Elrond, barely aware of doing so, ignored the proffered wine. "It matters not." He placed the volume on the table with exaggerated care.

"What ails you?"

"Naught."

"Elrond, do not think to lie to me," Gil-galad warned, his eyes narrow and sharp.

"Naught of any significance to any beyond myself." And he would say no more.

**

Celebrían was still incandescent rage as she took her seat at the supper table, her lips pressed into a tight line of deathly white. Her mother, seated at her left shoulder, wisely forbore from any comment.

The elf-maiden hardly saw the pristine linen before her, laid with simple china, and neither heard the rising babble of voices, nor smelt the fragrant steam rising in billowing clouds from the dishes as they were brought in. She avidly avoided the damp-eyed gaze of Falin fixed upon her from the other side of the hall, as if the fate of Arda and the outcome of this war depended upon it. He lifted one hand hopefully, and she unconsciously cringed back towards her mother. Falin briefly caught the Lady's gaze by accident and looked away hastily.

"Is everything well with you, iell-nín?" Galadriel asked gently. She needed no exercise of power to detect the tense pallor of her daughter's cheeks, so different from the rose-tinted glow of the morn, nor the way in which her hands fluttered and twisted restlessly in her skirts. The Noldorin lady's eyes flickered briefly to the lovelorn healer, and, in the silences of her mind, she belaboured him with the most interesting and pungent curses garned from the Dwarf who had guided them through the mines of Khazad-dûm.

Celebrían merely sank lower in her seat, glaring glumly at the delicate design painted on her plate. Thus it was that she missed the even glummer entrance of the Lord of Imladris, his hands plunged mulishly into his pockets, his shoulders tensely squared as if to brace against some terrible burden. Mayhap things would have gone differently, for better or for worse, if he had not seen her thus, seemingly as fragile as a new-sprung lily, her eyes suspiciously red, her face pale as if with the woes of love. As it was, his mouth tightened almost imperceptibly, swearing that he would no more press his attentions, so unwanted, upon her.

Gil-galad had a fair idea that something was amiss with his herald, but he was none too sure where to place the blame. Some other time, he might have cast it upon the Lady Celebrían, but for the last few weeks it had been rather hard either to miss or to mistake the longing glances she cast at the peredhel lord. Thus, he decided, the easiest way to shake the Elf from his own personal sough of despond was to manoeuvre him into conversation with his beloved and leave it to her deft wits to tease it from him. Accordingly, he took one of the two remaining chairs, making it entirely impossible for his foster-son to choose any chair but that next to the Lady Celebrían without entirely betraying his manners.

Elrond paled visibly, his composure shaken. It seemed to take forever to settle himself in the chair; he could hear the rush of the blood in his own ears. He tried to turn to the king, but was drawn inexorably back. He could smell her perfume, rising off her in delicate tendrils, hinting of a summer as yet far-off. He could see the individual freckles dabbed onto her cheekbones, a frail scattering of palest brown, and her lashes, lowered over her tired blue eyes, a faint shimmering of gossamer. There were ink stains on her hands. His body stirred in response. Never had he loved her more. He looked away, swallowing painfully.

"Elrond." Celebrían placed one hand on his arm and smiled up at him happily. It would be nice, she reflected to rest her head on that broad shoulder, and speak with him of inconsequential things, and then to...

"Hiril." With terrible restraint, he lifted her hand from his arm, folding her fingers inwards, and replaced it on the tablecloth. He could feel the pulse of his headache hammering against the walls of his skull.

A bubble of confusion welled up within her, spiked by her misery over the letter. She looked from her hand, curled up beside her plate like some hibernating creature, to the elf-lord beside her, and then back again.

"Elrond..." she began again, taking care to steady her voice.

"The cooks have excelled themselves tonight, have they not?" he said in a deliberately light tone. To prove his point, he speared a large chunk of chicken on his fork and placed it in his mouth. It was only with difficult that the combined force of stamina and willpower kept him from choking. What he had thought was chicken was in fact haddock, and it was heavily peppered. He chewed on resolutely, struggling to maintain an expression of enjoyment when it felt like his ears were on fire. He would not splutter like an elfling in front of her; that would be the final mortification… When the next possible opportunity arose, he reached for his goblet, dousing his burning mouth with the wine.

Celebrían looked at him hopefully, but when he merely reached for the jug to refill his goblet, she busied herself with her minted peas. They were a triumph of simple cuisine, but she barely noticed; a sour taste had invaded her mouth, and all she could think about was the Elf beside her. He ate in silence, punctuated only by his brief answers to the High King's conversational sallies. Once or twice, Celebrían met Gil-galad's eyes and saw mirrored therein some measure of her own concern. Her worry was not thus ameliorated.

The dishes were taken from the table, and she saw that the peredhel had eaten almost as little as she had, although his potatoes seemed to have been the victims of a severe and prolonged assault which had left them in deep-scored ruins. She longed to reach out to him, to ask what worries assailed him. Only fear held her back, and she watched, wordless and divided, as he strode from the room.

Bright tears pricked her eyes as she declined all invitations to adjourn to the Hall of Fire and instead retired to her own chambers.

**

The next day was no better, nor the next, nor the next. The week turned, and still a grim pall hung over Imladris, dulling its bright colours to shades of grey. The air was thick and heavy and no hint of spring made itself known. 'Twas as if nature itself were waiting with bated breath.

**

"Hiril-nín!"

Celebrían paused in the near-deserted corridor, reflexively clutching her book to herself as a shield. She had made a hurried foray to the library, no longer finding it so welcome a refuge.

"Hiril-nín!" Falin exclaimed again, hurrying up to her, a broad grin on his face.

"Master Falin." Celebrían drew herself up to her full height, wishing that she had the towering presence, physical as well as spiritual, as her mother.

He took one of her hands in both of his, massaging it in a way which made her wish to scream. She looked about for some diversion, some means of escape, but there was none, and 'twas not as if he had done anything improper.

"I trust that you are well?"

"Oh, quite, quite well" She waved the book as if in proof.

"I was a little concerned for you."

"Oh?" She tried to disentangle her fingers from his but found that she was stuck fast.

"I wondered..." He paused and gulped audibly. "I wondered if mayhap the pangs of love struck too near to your divine heart..."

Celebrían chuckled weakly and placed her other hand over his to free herself.

It was at that inappropriate moment that Lord Elrond was unfortunate enough to round the corner. Sleep had eluded him since that fateful day, for when he closed his eyes he saw naught but that letter engraved upon his eyelids, black stark on red. For the first time, he cursed the Elven powers of memory which would allow him no respite. And yet his wits were not sufficiently exhaustion-dulled to cloud his sight.

The couple stood before him, a mere hairsbreadth distant from each other, lips close and hands entwined.

"My darling ... did my letter cause this affliction of your senses? If it did, it need not be so. I promise you, I shall make all well, and gild the vaulted heavens for you..."

The lady moved her lips as if to speak and then turned her head away.

Elrond felt his hand clench involuntarily into fists, his nails nigh on breaking the skin of his palms in bloodied crescents. Slowly, so slowly, he schooled his face into an appropriate expression. As he approached the oblivious pair at a stately pace, he could hear every last rustle of his silken robes. "May I be the first to wish you joy." He was aware, somewhere in the depths of his mind, that his voice was not quite as level as he had intended it to be, but he plunged onwards, knowing that it was too late to stop now. "I am sure that you will be vastly happy together. It is a joy to my heart to see children thus settled." With a curt bow, he was gone.

Celebrían moved to clap one hand over her mouth in horror, but it was still clasped between Falin's larger ones. She had seen, in the moment when the half-elven lord had risen from his graceful bow, a depth of hatred and contempt she had never expected to find there.

__

Surely he could not...? Surely he did not...?

The next moment, she had rather more pressing concerns with which to contend. Falin, beaming contentedly at his liege-lord's avowed approval, lowered his head. Freeing her hands from at least one of his, he tipped her chin up and kissed her.

For a heartbeat, all that Celebrían could think of was how angry she would be any moment now, and then the full force of her outrage hit her, casting thought and feeling into blinding clarity. One of her hands was still imprisoned, her head was clamped in a vice, and her free arm was caught between their bodies. Slender though Falin might be, lacking his mentor's broad, graceful shoulders and powerful arms, but she had not the strength to tear herself from him by ordinary measures. However, not for nothing was she the daughter of Galadriel and of Celeborn of the Trees, neither of whom had seen much sense in rendering their only child meek, mild and utterly defenceless. She resorted to extraordinary measures; twisting her left knee upwards, she lashed out.

Falin bent double, wheezing and groaning and clutching at his wounded organ. Celebrían stepped back with her hands balled and an expression of righteous indignation on her face. He looked up at her with eyes brimming with tears of pain.

"But ... but ... my love ... why?"

"Never." She paused in an attempt to regain some of her composure. "Never again presume to address me so. I love you not, and if you had ceased your inane and self-centred prattling for more than a heartbeat, I would have told you so. As it is, you cannot possibly imagine the amount of damage you have done." She scrubbed at her mouth disgustedly, seeking to wipe away the taste of his lips on hers, and, turning on her heel, stormed away.

**

When the evening came, her rage had not abated. Still a little dizzy from the heady intoxication of her anger, she feigned sleep when the bell rang for dinner. But when her parents returned, arm in arm, it was to find her pacing the room, her skirts swishing behind her like the tail of a caged cat. She held a quill in one hand, a sheet of parchment marked and scored with dozens of corrections crumpled in the other. Streaks of ink daubed her face, further smeared by furious, desperate tears.

"Iell-nín?"

"Foolish creatures!" The words exploded from her. "Foolish, feckless creatures with no regard for sense nor reason. Blind, witless worms. Aye, 'tis what they are. They should crawl through the earth, and I for one would think that mud would be a vast improvement to their countenances. They presume ... they assume they know the contents of our thoughts, although in truth they know nothing of them..." The spate of Silvan invective which followed was an extraordinary feat of linguistic prowess. Although Lord Celeborn winced, Galadriel was hard-pressed to conceal her amusement. Silently, she motioned her husband from the room.

"Indeed they are," she said soothingly, ushering Celebrían to a chair and seating herself beside her. "But what is the specific instance of folly which has roused you to such wrath?"

Celebrían scowled darkly, and poured out the whole sorry tale as if one unwilling. Her diatribe on the faults and failings of the younger healer was piercingly free and frank, but it has nothing to that with which she dissected the elder. He was arrogant to a fault, almost painfully lacking in insight, cruel, cold. It was beyond her what the flocks of females who fluttered their eyelashes at him on a daily basis saw of worth. He had no right to judge: truth be told, even the great lore-master himself could not be so chastely cold as to have never been subject to such humiliating importunities himself. 

The last words stuck in her throat, bitter and harsh.

Galadriel simply sat there, clasping her daughter's trembling right hand tightly, weathering the tirade and the tears that followed alike. She could have spoken then, of his pride, of his uncertainty. It would have been easy to do so, to soothe away her daughter's angered fears, and yet she held back, much though it pained her to do so, and let her daughter and the peredhel lord tread the harder road, alone and together.

At long last Celebrían's sobs trailed off and she fell into a fitful doze, sniffling quietly to herself, her head propped against her mother's shoulder, her feet curled up beneath her. Silently, Galadriel slipped a pillow under her daughter's head. Rising, she fetched a blanket from the next room, and covered the still form. For a few moments she watched the rise and fall of the girl's breathing, as she had watched it when her daughter was but an elfling, and then she turned away, her thoughts oddly at peace. 'Twould all be well; Celebrían was too much her mother's daughter to allow the object of her affections slip through her fingers.

With a smug smile Galadriel retired to her own bed, and, more importantly, her own husband. Celeborn greeted her with a soft kiss, his eyes bright and knowing, and his arms closed tightly around her.

~*~

Celebrían was awakened by a shaft of pale, sickly light which crept through a chink in the shutters and fell across her face. She lay still for a moment, blinking uncertainly as her eyes grew accustomed to the dawn and she attempted to understand why Anar had escaped from its fixed course and was shining, albeit low and dim as of yet, through the north-facing window of her chambers.

It was only when she propped herself up on one elbow and the broidered cushion, dislodged by her movement, fell to a floor which was far closer than she had expected it to be, that she remembered where she was, and with that recollection came a flood of memories.

She groaned and sank her head in her hands, ruefully acknowledging that a flight to Lórien was not a viable means to escape this farrago of nonsense. And yet she was torn between the desire never to see the peredhel lord again until the ending of Arda, cursing his very name, and the desire to go to him at once, to wring his neck if need be, but, by hook or by crook to force some sense into him. In the end, as she had always known it would, the latter impulse won.

Rising, she hurried to her room. Stripping off her crumpled gown, she poured cold water from a ewer into her hands and splashed herself with it, scrubbing vigorously, hissing between her teeth at the chill. Her face still dripping, she selected a gown by the simple means of donning the first one which came to hand. She was scarcely aware of her fingers braiding her hair back from her face as she made her way swiftly through the corridors of Imladris, empty at this hour of the morning except for Lindir, a large jar of marmalade tucked securely under one arm and the keys to the store jangling in his hand, the sound harsh and ugly in the silence.

Elrond was not in his study, but she had not expected him there. In truth, she knew not what impulse drove her onwards, assured her that she _would_ find him. If she had stopped and allowed rational thought to resume its normal course, the realisation that he might yet be a-bed would surely have turned her back. But such was the haste of her search, the turmoil of her mind that she had no time for such mundane trivialities as rational thought.

It was only as she stepped out onto the lawns, damp with dew that seeped between her toes that she realised that she had forgotten her shoes, but that was of no importance either.

She found him seated upon a bench in the middle of the gardens, huddled in a heavy wool cloak, surrounded by his scattered correspondence. A ledger-book lay open on his lap, and he held a pen in one hand, but his eyes were distant, fixed upon some point beyond sight. His chin was tilted slightly upwards, and dawn was in his face, burnishing the last tendrils of mist that coiled around his head like the lost crowns of his forefathers. The breath caught in her throat.

He spoke without looking at her. "You should have brought a cloak. 'Tis too cold to walk without one."

She took a step closer, hugging her arms around herself protectively. "Elrond..."

He held up one hand as if to stay her, to ward her off. "I would rather you did not..."

Celebrían took his upraised hand in hers, folding his fingers inwards. Still holding it, she settled herself on the bench beside him.

The elf-lord looked at their joined hands for a scant moment, as if he would have wished to remain where he was. Celebrían smiled at him tentatively, but he jerked his hand free with a wrench and sprang upright, his shoulders rigid with tension, his head bowed. The tome fell to the ground with a thud and lay there, forgotten.

"Elrond, I need to ... I must speak with you... " She could see him clench his jaw, and plunged onwards. "I ... I know not whether my words will be unwelcome, but you should hear them nonetheless. I ... I care for you. I..."

"Speak no more." He cut her off abruptly, his voice raw and angry. He turned fully to face her, and she saw that his eyes were almost black with some veiled emotion. Another would have recoiled. Celebrían resisted the urge to glare.

"I have no time for some shallow flirtation such as you seem to desire." His face was set, unreadable. 

"Listen to me: I seek no shallow flirtation."

"Then go to _him_, and cease this folly. I ask nothing more than that you do not lie to me." His eyes flickered closed, but he stood before her, tall and noble, an elf-lord of old. "I have never asked more than that."

She stood slowly and reached up one hand to frame his face, brushing away a few stray strands of black hair. He flinched, holding himself tightly in check, but made no move to pull away; he found he could not. "Stop..."

"No." She let her hand fall, but only to take a firm grasp on a handful of his cloak. "Would you be deaf as well as blind, Elrond Peredhil? I care naught for Master Falin."

"You cannot expect me to disbelieve the evidence of my eyes." He uttered a short bark of caustic laughter.

"Did it ever occur to you that I might not have desired that? That his actions, his desires might not have been mine?"

He looked at her, clearly baffled.

"I see that I shall have to articulate this in full." She gathered up her entire reserve of not-inconsiderable courage and tugged him closer. "You are a fool, my lord. I did not encourage Master Falin's advances, nor did I enjoy his attentions." She grinned a little. "I think that I shall be free from them after I made it plain that his embrace was unwanted and inappropriate." She bit her lip. "I ... I ... it is you I love, Lord Elrond."

She stared fixedly at her feet, bare and blue from the cold, awaiting his scepticism, his contempt, his indifference. Thus it was that she did not see the emotions - fear, disbelief, confusion, delight - that chased one another across his face. He swallowed, tried to speak, failed. Celebrían, finally daunted by his silence, stepped back, but he captured her hand, entangling his fingers with hers.

"Let it be." She found to her horror that she could not hold her voice steady; it trembled as did her hands.

"No." His other arm snaked around her waist. "I rather fear that I prefer you where you are, my love." 

She could feel the heat rising off him in the early morning air, his arm sturdy against her. She blinked. 

He gazed upon her, his eyes filled with understanding and love mingled with a ghost of pain. "Celeb loth nín."

Celebrían felt a sob rising in her throat, although she knew not why in this hour of hope, and chose the most appropriate way she could think of to muffle it. Twining her arms around Elrond's neck, she leant up and pressed her lips to his. For a moment, he held perfectly still, his heart racing, but the scent of her so close to him, the sensation of her body against his, rather precluded any continuation of this state. His arms tightened around her waist, and he drew her in, deepening the kiss.

Neither knew how long they stood there like that, and when Celebrían spoke again they were sitting side by side on the bench, and his cloak was draped around her shoulders. "Well, El-nin, I find I like this morning considerably more than I liked yesterday, or the days before that."

"Indeed." He caressed her hair fondly, letting silvery handfuls slip through his fingers. "So ... Falin persecuted you with his attentions?"

She nodded, finding that her memories of the miscreant healer were rather vague, and indeed bothered her very little.

"I shall relieve him of his responsibilities," Elrond said grimly.

"Nay. Let him be. It matters not."

The elf-lord consented, although his reluctance made it clear that Falin would spend a considerable proportion of his time shredding unpleasantly pungent medicinal leaves.

Tucking her head under his chin, he rummaged in the heavy leather pouch that lay beside him, seeking by touch alone. The tiny silk bag fitted easily into the palm of his hand, and he worked the knot loose, shaking the contents into his palm.

"Today I cannot..."

"I know. We cannot wed until this war is ended. Believe, however, as I do, that it _will_ end."

"Aye. And when it does, may I...?"

"Of course." She smoothed the furrow from between his eyebrows. "Hir-nín, you can be really quite remarkably foolish at times. You barely needed to ask."

She plucked one ring from his palm and slid it onto his finger. He watched the play of the early light upon the metal for a moment before reciprocating.

"Now and forever, meleth-nín."

"Now and forever."

So caught up were they in the kiss that ensued that they did not hear the soft tread of approaching feet.

"At last, ion-nín. I had begun to despair that I would ever again have a competent vice-regent." Gil-galad stood gazing upon them, a broad grin plastered across his face.

Elrond and Celebrían smiled back sheepishly and, rising together, followed him into the Last Homely House in search of a breakfast suitable for those who had suffered such an excess of emotion so early in the morning.

FINIS

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

****

Translations:

Meleth-nín – my love

Celeb loth nín – my silver flower

Melethril – lover (female)

A review would be very welcome ;)


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